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shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts Where least we dread him, and where most the soul Doth lull itself to fond security Reveal his ministry; and were not man Blind to the future, he might see the sky Even in the glory of its cloudless prime Dark with that arrow-flight. They deemed it so, Who marked thee like a stately column fall, And in the twinkling of an eye yield back Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes,—they felt, Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek Flushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd, How awful such a rush from time must be. Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breast Were ranklings of a recent grief for her The idol of thy tenderness, with whom Life had been one long scene of changeless love. Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger In sleepless agony, that bore her hence,— And when the eye did darken, from whose beams Thine own had drank from youth its dearest joy, Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God, Bowing thy spirit to His righteous will. The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not staunched, Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere Death's dire frost Congeal'd the fount of life.